


wrapped up in clover

by ellievolia



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 05:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6143284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellievolia/pseuds/ellievolia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrice and Andrew, through the years. In the same place or far away from each other, they were never apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wrapped up in clover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [armillarysphere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/armillarysphere/gifts).



> So much fluff. Mostly fluff! Hope you enjoy, armillarysphere! Sorry it's not thousands of words longer! Thanks to my betas and my cheerleaders.

June 17, 2011

Patrice is - feeling the alcohol, like, so much champagne fizzing in his veins, making him lightheaded, in the very best of ways. He’s also definitely feeling Andrew, pressed up all against him in the toilet stall, kissing his neck, venturing down Patrice’s body like a man on a mission, hands gripping Patrice’s sides, sure to leave marks, as he sinks to his knees. 

He looks up, grins, and he looks just as drunk as Patrice feels, days and days of partying and celebrating and being on the goddamn top of the world, the center of the galaxy, _winners_. It’s been a whirlwind, none of them have slept for three days and maybe that’s why Andrew pushed Patrice into the toilets of this bar they ended up in at three in the morning on the day before the parade; maybe it’s the adrenaline and the alcohol and that ridiculous gold-plated bottle of champagne, or it’s something else but Patrice can’t think about it. 

He can’t think about it when Andrew is looking at him like that, opening Patrice’s jeans and pushing his hands inside, his cheeks flushed and his bottom lip bitten raw. _Jesus_ , Patrice thinks, his head thudding against the partition when his hips jerk into Andrew’s touch, and he reaches down to drag his fingers along the top of Andrew’s head just as Andrew leans in, sucking Patrice’s cock into his mouth. 

“Oh God!” Patrice shouts, drunk enough that he doesn’t even care how loud he’s being, smiling against the back of the hand he’s got pressed to his mouth. He spends a single nanosecond thinking they should probably talk about this, but. There’s also the fact that Andrew’s flattening his tongue against the underside of Patrice’s cock, and any and all thoughts fly right out of his mind. 

It’s not the most elegant blowjob Patrice has ever received, and he’s not the most galant blowee either - he realizes that, but it doesn’t seem to matter to Andrew, who’s sloppy and urgent in the way he touches Patrice, and it just feels _perfect_ under the circumstances. Frantic and rushed, just as a public toilet BJ should be, even for the Stanley fucking Cup winners.

Afterwards, he kisses Andrew breathless and jerks Andrew off until he comes into his jeans, groaning against Patrice’s lips, shaking in Patrice’s arms. “Can I take you home?” Patrice asks, his nose brushing against Andrew’s. 

Andrew nods. “Yes, please,” he answers, his hands fisted in Patrice’s shirt. 

 

\----

July 4, 2013

“Hey, it’ll be okay,” Andrew says, his tone gentle, like he’s trying to calm a fretting animal. Patrice’s fists and jaw clench - he’s so angry, and _sad_ , and the worst part is that he can’t even blame anyone. It’s the way things are, it’s the fucking sport. 

Patrice wants to tell Andrew to take his unrelenting optimism and shove it. Right now, their future is pretty bleak, in Patrice’s eyes, and he’s having a hard time figuring out how exactly it’ll be okay. “How?”

Andrew shrugs. “We live in a formidable age, B. We can talk every day, see each other every day.”

“Actually meet in person three times a year but wave at each other over Skype every day. Cool, sounds like fun.”

“You can put your laptop down on my side of the bed if you want. I’ll snore you to sleep just as well through Skype as I do now,” Andrew replies with a grin, and Patrice rolls his eyes, unable to find humor in the situation. He’s upset by Andrew’s decision, even if he _understands it_. It just sucks that this is suddenly their best - their only - solution. 

He was right there in the room when Andrew accepted Edmonton’s offer, feeling like a death sentence to their relationship. The best thing to ever happen in Patrice’s life - besides winning the Cup - slipping through his fingers. 

“Why don’t you stay?” Patrice asks, a little desperate. “Why don’t you retire?”

Andrew wraps his fingers around Patrice’s arm and pulling him in. His touch is soft, but his eyes are a little accusing when he asks, “Why don’t you?”

Patrice takes a deep breath, and Andrew lets go of him, knowing he made his point. It’s never that easy - they both want to keep playing, and they can’t do that on the same team, in the same city. Not even in the same country, apparently. 

Andrew’s gentle again when he tugs Patrice closer, one of his hands sliding along Patrice’s hip to rest on his ass, giving it a light pat. “Four seasons, at most. Not the end of the world, is it?” 

It’s not like Patrice didn’t know it was coming. He knew. They both did. But there was still a chance Andrew would land in Buffalo, or New Jersey, somewhere that isn’t across the continent, on a team the Bruins barely ever face during the season. No way to fly in and out quickly for an evening together. Right now, it feels a little hopeless. Patrice sighs.

“I guess we’ll just have to become really good at phone sex, eh?”

Andrew laughs. “That’s the spirit, B.”

\---

April 11, 2016

Patrice lays awake, arms outstretched and taking almost the whole width of the bed, just staring at the ceiling. In his head, he’s going through plays, seeing them unfold for goals, hits, puck battles, shots attempts. 

The playoffs are always kind of a weird time. Patrice tries his best to empty his mind from anything else, but there’s always this tiny part of his brain that reminds him that he _can_ stretch along the whole bed, because Andrew isn’t here. Andrew’s still in Edmonton, being a member of the community and making sure his team isn’t too dejected for missing the playoffs. Patrice allows himself to think about Andrew, a moment of missing him and wishing, selfishly, that Andrew could be in Boston instead of in Edmonton, supporting Patrice. He knows it’s not how Andrew functions, and it’s part of why Patrice loves him as much as he does; Andrew wants to help his team as much as he can, even if it is by giving up the C and sitting in the press box more often than not. Even if it’s by entertaining the media with thoughts of retirement. 

Patrice sighs, loud in the quiet of his bedroom. He’s not sure he’s going to get any sleep tonight, but then - he hears the front door, open and close, a soft noise he shouldn’t be able to make from the bedroom but he’s been needing to oil up the hinges, and _shit_ , there’s someone in the house. 

Standing up quickly, Patrice grabs the first thing he can - a hockey stick, obviously - and brandishes it above his head, ready to swing as he pads through the hallway, barefoot and shivering. 

He stops dead at the kitchen door, his arm falling to his side and the hockey stick clattering to the floor. The sudden noise makes Patrice’s surprise visitor jump, turning around with a hand over his heart. “Why in hell would you do that?” he asks, accusatory, and Patrice feels a surge of anger rush through him.

“Why wouldn’t you _call_? I thought we were being burgled!” 

Andrew drops his keys on the kitchen island, suddenly grinning. “Hey, it’s nice to see you too, B.” 

Brain short-circuited, Patrice rounds the kitchen island to stand by Andrew, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him in immediately for a kiss, a little more urgent than they’re used to. Andrew groans, a hand framing Patrice’s face, the other already slipping under Patrice’s shirt, toying with the waistband of his underwear. 

When he pulls back, just enough to be able to talk, Patrice says, “I didn’t think you were coming.” 

“You know I’m full of surprises,” Andrew replies, his voice a little raw. His eyes keep on darting back to Patrice’s lips. One thing that Patrice can give to the long-distance thing is that their relationship has lost none of its passion, at least. Patrice feels it, right now, the fire low in his belly, the _need_ to touch Andrew everywhere; he’d go down on his knees right here and now if he didn’t know much better than to be doing that to his knees at this time of the season. 

Instead, he presses closer to Andrew, pushing his nose into the curve of his neck, breathing in deeply. He closes his eyes when Andrew’s fingers card through his hair, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “So…”

“So?” Patrice asks, reluctantly moving back to be able to look into Andrew’s eyes. 

“Before I left, I sat down with Peter.” 

“Okay?” 

“I told him I’m done. There’s no point - next year I’ll just be scratched all season long. I’d rather be - here. I can go to class, and be with you, and -”

Patrice cuts him off with another kiss, just as toe-curlingly intense as the first one, Patrice’s hands fisted tightly in Andrew’s shirt, pressed against his spine, his mind reeling with the news and Andrew’s touch and - _finally_ , that selfish part of his brain repeats. 

Of course they’d talked about it, and Patrice knew it was coming, but he honestly wasn’t sure Andrew wouldn’t stick with it another year, would have understood if he did. But he’s elated, trembling with excitement and happiness in Andrew’s arms, holding onto Andrew, pressing his grin into their kiss. 

“Welcome home,” Patrice says when they finally pull apart. 

\---

May 28th, 2018

Patrice tugs on the lapels of his suit, looking up at the stage impatiently. Sitting next to him, Brad keeps on throwing him amused looks, raising an eyebrow after a while of Patrice fidgeting. 

“Got a ringworm or something?”

Patrice flips him off, even as both Zdeno and Tuukka chuckle from the row of seats behind them, too tall to look comfortable. Milan, who’d flown over for the occasion, smacks the back of Brad’s head - gently, for Milan, but Brad still rubs the spot after yelping. 

“Leave him alone,” Milan says, but Patrice shushes them all, waving his hands in their faces.

“Shut up, it’s starting!”

The ceremony in itself is pretty boring. There’s a lot of waffling on about pride, and hard-work and determination, and achieving your goals - the sorts of things Patrice himself has given speeches about, but this time recited by a nervous looking valedictorian. It goes on and on, too, before the actual handing out of diplomas, but Patrice sits tight, looking around the crowd regularly and trying to spot Andrew. 

For some reason, he’s nervous as hell, even though there’s nothing at stakes; it’s not like they’re going to take Andrew’s diploma and achievements away from him at the last minute, but Patrice’s palms are still sweating, and his heart is beating a mile a minute. 

Finally, it’s time. Patrice sits up straighter, straining not to stand up as the dean of the college says, with a booming voice, “Andrew Ference,” launching the five of them into cheers, much louder than the polite clapping from the rest of the room. 

Patrice, his heart in his mouth, watches Andrew walk up to the podium and receive his diploma, shaking hands, his grin blinding when he waves at them afterwards, making them whoop all over again, Tuukka laughing when Brad launches into a high-pitched whistle. They’re as raucous as they can be with just them - Patrice would have brought in the whole team, but this is Andrew’s moment. 

Andrew goes back off stage, and Patrice settles in for the rest of the ceremony, his attention wavering quickly now that he doesn’t have Andrew to cheer for anymore. He thinks he’ll manage, even as Brad starts dozing off next to him, but he only lasts half an hour before he just loses it, and excuses himself - he needs to take a piss, sorry _Brad_. He gets out of his chair, passing by the new graduates, and Andrew doesn’t miss him, his lips quirking as their eyes meet. Patrice raises an eyebrow, giving Andrew the tiniest of head jerks before he exits the auditorium towards the bathrooms. 

He’s leaning against the row of sinks, grinning when the door opens just a couple of minutes later, Andrew walking in with a look over his shoulder as he does. He laughs when he sees Patrice waiting for him, immediately stepping into Patrice’s open, waiting arms. 

“Congratulations,” Patrice says softly, as Andrew pushes close, his nose just under Patrice’s jaw. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around Patrice’s waist. “You look good.”

“So do you,” Patrice replies, just as absent-mindedly, hands rubbing Andrew’s back through his robes. Patrice is so proud he feels fit to burst, kissing Andrew’s temple, cheek, the corner of his mouth. “You’re so good,” he adds, not as much an afterthought as it sounds. Andrew makes a noise, leaning in for a kiss, hungrier than Patrice expected. He responds in kind anyway, shifting to bracket Andrew’s face with his hands, groaning when Andrew bites on his lower lip. Patrice shivers, and pulls away reluctantly, giving the toilets a look before wincing. 

“Hey, I know academia makes you horny, but I am not trying to get access to your dick through these robes when we’ve got like, five minutes,” Patrice says, to which Andrew rolls his eyes. 

“You’re such a party-pooper.” 

“You love it.”

“Yeah, well, we all have our flaws. Which makes me think, hey, B, hey,” Andrew says, getting Patrice’s attention focused on him again, his smile crooked and a little nervous. Patrice raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Now that this is done, and all, what would you say we get hitched?”

Patrice - freezes, staring at Andrew. It takes him a while to actually process the words, to make sure he’s not imagining things. “I - what?”

Andrew looks even more nervous now as he scratches the back of his head. “You, me, some nice garden somewhere in Canada in the summer, a bunch of people we know and love. Promising each other forever and all. Rings. A big party where we get really drunk and dance all night. You know, the whole thing.” 

Patrice takes another moment, and then groans, _loudly_. “Seriously? Mister Romantic proposes, without a ring or anything, in the bathroom of an auditorium? _Seriously_?” 

Andrew laughs, punching Patrice’s shoulder lightly. “Hey, you’re the romantic. Is that a yes, though?”

Patrice rolls his eyes. “Like I - _yes_ , of course it’s a yes, you idiot!” Patrice punctuates his assent with a kiss, his heart beating fast enough that he’s sure Andrew can feel it, but it’s okay, it’s _okay_ , because this is forever and Andrew’s just as stupid about Patrice as Patrice is about him, and they don’t have to be apart, ever again. 

“We need to stop hitting relationship milestones in public bathrooms, man,” Patrice says when they pull apart, brushing his thumbs along Andrew’s cheeks. 

Andrew laughs. “I promise the next one will be nice.” 

 

END


End file.
